Pour Me One (For the Road)
by Lucia di L
Summary: Sandor meets Sansa by accident in a hospital and they're forced to share some time together as the elevator they're in breaks down... "Silence stretched in the elevator car, giving him plenty of time to ponder what was going on and what could be the consequences. There were only two questions that mattered: did he want her back in his life? And if so, was she ready to welcome him?"
1. Episode 1

**Author's note: **

**All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.**

**This fic is a gift for my dear friend, Underthenorthernlights (happy birthday, girl!). It was meant to be a one-shot, but as it turns out, there will be two more chapters. At least.  
**

**The title and some details of the story were inspired by the Arctic Monkeys' last album, AM.**

* * *

The automatic sliding glass door opened with a faint noise and he stepped in with a grunt, reluctant as always. In front of him, the entrance of Quiet Isle General Hospital buzzed with patients asking their way and busy nurses snaking in and out of small groups.

Sandor Clegane had never understood why people felt the urge to go to the hospital with their family; in his mind, one couldn't fight injuries or diseases by being surrounded by his relations, his kin. _The day you're ill or fucking wounded, you just fight alone against something you can't see. And you're on your own when facing death._ The presence of friends or family just made it worse. _Because leaving this fucking life is one thing but leaving behind the ones you loved rips up your heart. If you have a heart, that is to say._ Years ago, the mere notion of death appalled him; he saw illness and death as proofs that God didn't exist. His former self had disappeared however, and now he considered the prospect of his own death with indifference. Now and then with something akin to serenity.

"Please, my nephew is in pediatrics," a woman in her forties told a nurse, her voice quavering. "Where can we find him?"

She had just come in, bringing in her wake a paunchy man and an old woman – her husband and her mother, most likely – and she stood beside him. Only the glossy foliage of a plastic plant separated them. The young, brown-haired nurse she was talking to had been stopped in her tracks and she blinked at the sun coming from outside through the glass facade, then stared at the woman for a second, before fully regaining her composure.

"Third floor, Ma'am. But please be careful, they've just repainted the hallway. The elevator is on your right."

With a smile, she turned around and walked away. The family beside him headed to the elevator – the old woman doing her best to match her daughter and son-in-law's long strides – and Sandor followed suit. He didn't need to ask his way, after a long stay here – much longer than he first thought – and numerous medical consultations since the day he had left Quiet Isle. He even knew, inside out, the convalescent home hidden behind the large buildings of the hospital, for he had spent months out there.

"Just a courtesy call," the Elder Brother had chuckled, the last time they had met. "You need to come back here from time to time, so that I can have a look at your leg and see if everything is alright."

Although it wasn't his real name but a moniker the surgeon had earned after long years in the department of orthopedics, Sandor couldn't think of the man who had performed surgery on his injured leg and who had probably saved his life without calling him 'Elder Brother'. As a matter of fact, Sandor always hesitated when he had to call the hospital, fearing a slip of the tongue and the medical secretary's reaction if he asked for an appointment with the Elder Brother. The man had kept a close eye on him during Sandor's long recovery, eventually visiting him in the convalescent home and talking with him for hours, and for that, Sandor was grateful.

There was already an old couple in the elevator when they all stepped in, Sandor ruing the slight limp that drew the couple's attention to his leg before their eyes went up and widened at the sight of his ruined face. _Screw you._ The panicked woman with her husband and mother pressed a button on the operating panel, then Sandor extended his hand to reach the one with a fluorescent number five ringed with blue.

They were only six and the elevator car was rather large; Sandor nonetheless felt hemmed in. Such things often happened when he was in the elevator of Quiet Isle General Hospital, because he hated hospitals in the first place and also because the couple's insistent look was a reminder of his scars.

On the evidence of the old couple's murmur, he could tell the woman already imagined he was a war veteran, coming back from Iraq or Afghanistan. _If only they knew the truth._ He clenched his teeth and let out a sigh of relief when the old couple moved past him to leave. _The second floor. Damn it._ A teenage girl who was a perfect example of Gothic fashion with her black lace dress, ridiculously long gloves and heavy make-up, came in and pressed the button of the first floor. _Oh no. Don't fucking tell me that-_

The elevator went down as Sandor half-opened his mouth to exhale his frustration. Squaring his shoulders and glaring at the teenage girl who avoided his eyes with great care and stared at her Gothic platform boots, his right hand tightened on the bag where he had put copies of the x-rays and a gift for the Elder Brother – a bottle of Scotch whisky. _Twelve years of age. He will like it, I'm sure, even if nine o'clock is a bit early to start drinking._ The Elder Brother would also lecture him about the abuse of alcohol, but they both knew Sandor had left behind his years of heavy drinker.

The artificial ding of the elevator warned them they were on the first floor and the Gothic girl left without a single look in their direction. He heard the woman who worried about her nephew talking to her mother in an undertone and he assumed they had finally noticed his burns.

That was one of the reasons why, after so many years, he loathed public space, especially elevators and waiting rooms: the people he knew and he worked with were accustomed to his burns. Those he cared for were able to be counted on the fingers of one hand – the Elder Brother being one of them – but at least they didn't pay much attention to his scars. Whenever he found himself in a crowd, there was always a moron who had to look hard at him, but most people didn't dare stare at him, impressed – and slightly frightened – by his uncommon build. It was much harder to avoid their stares in the confined space of the elevator car: they simply couldn't miss his burns.

Sandor was about to press the button again to get to the fifth floor faster when a gasp coming from the buzzing entrance hall drew his attention. A girl rushed in the elevator car just before the doors closed and she put her bag down with a chuckle of relief once the elevator went up. Sandor's heart skipped a beat; he knew that girl, despite the brownish dye that hid her natural color's hair.

Absorbed by her thoughts and visibly satisfied now that she was inside the elevator car, she had not seen him. The quick rise and fall of her chest told him she had been running before and he thought she was, just like him, in a hurry for some appointment; at the same time, the rapid motions of her upper body reminded him how this girl's curves haunted his nights, years after he had last seen her. _Sansa Stark. The Little Bird._

Seven years after their last encounter – an event which details he badly wanted to forget, without much success so far – she had changed but what he cherished in her was still there. _Except that damned brown hair. Why did she dye her hair?_ Long eyelashes hid deep blue eyes as she kept looking at her crimson ballet flats; he recognized her high cheekbones, her full lips he craved to kiss. Her hair bun she had most likely done in a rush brought out the delicate line of her neck; her breasts seemed bigger than he remembered in the white blouse she wore – _but she was only fifteen when I last saw her_. Apart from this change he wouldn't complain, she had the same long legs than in his memories. _She used to prefer skirts,_ he mused, looking at her pair of skinny jeans.

All of a sudden, she raised her head and he realized his stare had been so heavy, so insistent she had finally noticed him, even if, because of the comings and goings of the other people, he was leaning back the wall of the elevator. The three who had asked their way to the pediatrics department were still between them when she first locked eyes with him and oddly enough, their presence comforted Sandor as much as it bothered him.

A part of him wanted to be alone with her and to bombard her with questions; on the other hand, he dreaded the confrontation with a girl who had brought chaos to his life and whose curves were etched in his memory. He had come to enjoy – eventually – the quiet life he now had. His enjoyed his job at the boxing gym, his small house at the edge of the town was enough for him and whenever he wanted to fuck someone, he knew where to go. He was free and nobody annoyed him. He didn't need some ghost from his past – so alluring as it might be – to question his new habits. He didn't need Sansa Stark.

They stared at each other for a long while, until the grand-mother gave them a suspicious look, before Sansa managed to say: "Good morning, Sandor."

The three intruders – for that was exactly what those people had become at that moment – seemed surprised and the old lady slightly shook her head in disapproval.

"'Morning," he finally replied, gruff as ever.

If he had now and then imagined their reunion, when sleeplessness gave him plenty of time to turn things over in his head, their first exchange was always warmer and less awkward. _Fuck me! I'm a grown man and I'm still speechless when I'm before her._

The unpleasant ding echoed in the elevator car and the doors soon opened to free the three passengers who had witnessed their encounter with a furrowed brow. Sansa stepped aside so that they could leave and she leaned back against the metallic wall, mirroring his attitude. The doors slowly closed and suddenly they were face to face.

"Where- where are you going to?" he growled, his fingers hovering over the luminescent figures. The notion he was closer to the elevator buttons somewhat satisfied him, like a derisory proof that he was in control of something, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

"Fifth floor," she replied curtly.

He pressed the button again and the elevator went up. _At last._ Her back stiffened and she tilted her head back until it rested against the wall; she stared at him, her big blue eyes shining. Sandor wondered if she was just astonished by his presence in this place or if she was cursing at him. _Because, let's face it, I was a part of all that happened to her at that time. When Joffrey beat her, I stood there and I watched._ Holding her stare became harder with each passing second. _I'll never forgive myself for what I did... or what I didn't do. I don't expect her to forgive me either._

"What are you doing here?" Her tone had nothing to do with the demure, polite girl he had known, years before: there was something bitter in her voice. Uncomfortable, he glanced at his feet before locking eyes with her again. _She's on her back foot. She looks like she had been hunted down. Her brown hair... Is this why she dyed it? Because someone's after her?_

"Visiting someone," he replied, evasive. For some reason, he didn't want her to know about his gimpy leg. The moment she would understand he had been shot and was now weakened, would feel like someone was reopening his wound. He just wished she could ignore his limp.

"I didn't picture you visiting patients," she commented.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, yet nobody stepped in; it often happened here and Sandor guessed someone had lost patience while waiting for the elevator and had decided to take the stairs instead. Trying to hide his discomfiture but failing miserably, he pressed the button a bit too forcefully. The elevator's doors closed and reopened at once, then he pressed the button again, irritated and eager to leave the girl who blamed him for her misfortunes, if her previous remark was any indication.

When the doors closed for good this time, he let out a deep sigh and avoided her gaze. The irksome ding echoed inside the car, rousing a sensation he thought he had forgotten. _Uncontrollable anger. Need to crush something._ The girl didn't only bring back bad memories: habits he believed gone forever and his old reflexes returned in her wake. His jaw tense, he tried to focus on the idea he would soon get upstairs and walk away. _I'll limp away,_ he told himself sourly, imagining the disgust on her face, when she'd watch him leave.

The elevator stopped again, the doors didn't open. A quick glance at the position indicator, right behind him, made him frown: numbers four and five blinked on the screen, as if they were stuck between two floors.

"What's wrong?" she asked suddenly. Nervously, she took her purse – a red little thing matching the color of her shoes – and she clutched to the strap before taking a step forward.

"Don't know," he mumbled, pressing again the button with a luminescent number five ringed with blue.

"You shouldn't do that. The more you press the button-"

He turned to her so briskly she stopped short of saying more. Her blue eyes widened in apprehension and that was how he understood he had been glaring at her. _You're a brute. You keep drumming in you've changed, but you didn't. You still frighten her._

"Very well," he said coldly. "If you want to give a try..." A cruel smile plastered on his lips, he gestured at the operating panel. "Be my guest."

Hesitating, she took one more step; Sandor moved aside so that she could access the control buttons and he watched her slender fingers hovering over them. The elevator car still didn't move. Sansa gave him a quizzical look before carefully pressing the button with a number five on it. _Of course. You think you'll do better than me by being patient and treating everything with the utmost respect._ She pressed the button again, but nothing happened and Sandor repressed a chuckle.

Defeated, she chewed her lip thus reminding Sandor of how badly he wanted to kiss her whenever she did this, when she was fifteen. When she chewed her lip, she became again the young, fragile girl he had watched wither away without lifting his little finger.

"What's going on?" she asked. "Is the elevator car stuck?"

He snorted. "I guess it is." He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket then he shook her head vehemently. "Shit! It's useless. Cell phones don't fucking work in the hospital. Policy."

Avoiding his gaze, she exhaled a deep sigh. After a while, she stared at the operating panel again and she pressed the button showing a bell. "It's how we ask for help, right?" she muttered.

It was less a question than an attempt to reassure herself. _Maybe she didn't change that much._ Sandor nodded, put his bag down on the car floor and folded his arms.

They heard interference, then a nasal voice broke the silence inside the elevator car. "Regent elevators, what can I do for you?"

"We- The elevator we're in just stopped," she explained, visibly relieved to hear someone else's voice. "We're in Quiet Isle General Hospital. It seems that we're stuck between two different floors."

"Can you give me the number of the elevator, Miss?" the nasal voice went on. "It's written near the position indicator, on the left." Sansa complied obediently. "When did you say the elevator stopped?"

"A few minutes ago. How long does it take to send someone here?"

They heard the man shuffling papers. "Well, I don't know... Quiet Isle is forty miles from our nearest office, so I'd say... one hour at the very least. Are you alone in there, Miss?"

"No, I'm not." There was something akin to exasperation in her voice: Sandor snorted.

"Grin and bear it, then!" the man replied.

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, as a heavy silence filled the elevator car. "This is all I need," she finally mumbled.

Sandor shook his head slowly, surprised to see how the Little Bird had grown talons during the last few years. "Say it, girl. It couldn't be worse. Stuck with _me_ in this fucking elevator." Anger laced his words with bitterness and he suddenly wondered what had happened to the taciturn yet serene man he had become. Leaning against the handrail, Sansa looked up at him with horror.

"I'm going to be late!" she explained. "Your- presence here has nothing to do with my-" She looked for words. "My annoyance."

"Spare me."

Visibly hurt by his disbelief, she sat down on the car floor, clutching to her purse. Sandor began to feel the familiar ache in his thigh; it was something he was accustomed to since he had got injured, six years ago. _I shouldn't stand like this for a long time._ He clenched his teeth. Only the notion she would inevitably notice his stiff leg the moment he would lower himself prevented him from sitting down. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to find a less uncomfortable position.

"You won't sit down?" she asked. She had always been more observant than most people thought.

"I'm fine," he rasped, braggart despite the pain. Her eyes narrowed slightly, suggesting she didn't believe him. "I already bother you by just being here, I don't want to force you to look at my ugly face."

From where he stood, she looked tiny and vulnerable.

"Oh, come on! What did you expect me to do? You thought I would fly into your arms? Did you forget the night I last saw you?"

_Here we are._ His drunkenness and his bad manners, that was all the girl remembered and when something reminded her of the Hound – by accident – she probably thought of this smell of booze and those innuendos that were his trademark at the time. _I guess I asked for it._

"You said 'good morning'," he observed, trying not to wince in pain lest she understood he wasn't there to visit a patient. "I expected you to do that. Always the proper little lady."

Sansa gasped in shock. She now had that 'Why-are-you-so rude' look he found both unbearable and enticing. He let his eyes roam over her, just to see if she was going to blush – like she usually did when she was a teenager – or to protest. _She's got backbone, now._ He died to know what had changed her yet he refused to ask the question, fearing the answer would made him feel terribly old and lonely.

_Her perfect lips, her throat, her breasts..._ Under the white, loose shirt she wore that morning, they looked bigger than in his memories, he was sure about that, and he had trouble chasing away the visions of Sansa that still haunted his nights.

_She must be married._ Rumors had it that she had married the Imp but it was a long time ago. Girls like her didn't stay with runts like the Imp – nor with monsters like him. _She's twenty-three,_ he told himself. _She probably got divorced and she married someone else. She-_

Frowning, he tried to remember what was written on the sign of the fifth floor. _Orthopedics..._ that was on his right, when he left the elevator car. On the left... He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and he remembered what was written below. _Gynecology. Obstetrics. Consultations. She's pregnant._ His heart skipped a beat. _She's pregnant. That's why she's going to the fifth floor._

Sandor had never suspected the notion his Little Bird bore someone else's child could hurt so badly. _Hence the loose shirt to hide her stomach. She's got an appointment with some fucking obstetrician. It explains what she says about being late._ He felt like his legs were going to give out and he lowered himself to the floor, careless of her reaction. Imagining the swell of her belly under the blouse was like rubbing salt into the wound. _She's pregnant._

_I don't have any right to complain, she's not my plaything. She never was. She certainly deserves to be happy._ All those words that would normally soothe him filled his mind with their lulling wisdom, yet they seemed useless. No matter how time had flied, no matter the changes he had experienced, the realization she was pregnant stung, and his hands began to shake.

"Sandor, what happened to your leg?"

As if it wasn't enough, she had noticed. From now on, she would never see him again as the strong, fearless man she had once met.

"Got shot at." _Always stingy with words,_ the Elder Brother would have commented with a smirk.

"When?" she now sounded concerned. "What happened?"

He shrugged, tilting his head against the metallic wall of the elevator car. "Six years ago. A shootout, when I was on the lame." Sansa's eyes encouraged him to go on, so he did. "I was banged up when I arrived here. A surgeon took care of me and here I am, limping along."

_Quite a tirade, right?_ Sandor easily imagined the Elder Brother taunting him. The first times the two men had met in the convalescent home, it had mostly been the surgeon talking. Sandor needed time to trust the man and to share his memories with him. _But the Elder Brother isn't Sansa Stark._ It had always been easier with her. _Talking was easier but being honest was more difficult, I guess. I always sounded more rude than I intended._ Wincing, he crossed his long legs so that the wounded one rested on the floor. His foot brushed Sansa's, who was sitting cross-legged.

"So it's an appointment with your surgeon?" she said.

He nodded, then mindlessly combed his dark hair so that it concealed a part of his burns. An old reflex that came back, once in front of her. _This is so stupid. As if she cared about me now that-_ The words were stuck in his throat. He imagined her lifting the blouse so that an unknown man could look at her swollen belly and touch her smooth skin. He imagined her grin as two male hands caressed her stomach and the acid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. _I don't want to know anything else. If she tells me the details of her fucking wedding day or asks me what color is best for a nursery, I swear I'm going to puke._

"You live nearby?" she asked again. The chirping of the Little Bird – or rather her inability to stay silent when she was nervous – forced a wan smile out of him. He nodded.

"And- what do you do for a living?" She had met a tough guy, a henchman who worked for the Lannisters and he had previously mentioned he had been on the run: in all likelihood, imagining he could have given up his former illegal activities was difficult for her. Brow knitted, she waited for his answer.

"I manage a boxing gym. I'm my own boss, now." He squared his shoulders and peeked at her, curious to see her reaction. He didn't think 'own' was a jaw-dropping word, yet the girl was speechless. "Alright, I didn't exactly buy it. It's Barristan Selmy's, but as he's too old to keep training kids and ruling the place... Besides, he has no children. So I manage it and it'll be mine someday."

Oddly enough, he felt proud to tell her he was his own boss and he would eventually own a small business when Barristan Selmy would go west. The boxing gym was an old one, crowded with boys who looked like youthful offenders more than athletes, but nobody commanded him out there.

"I think I have a business card, somewhere..." he trailed off, retrieving his billfold from the back pocket of his jeans and holding it out to her on an impulse. "Some girls train at the gym, you know... But I guess in your condition..."

Sansa's eyes widened. "In my condition?" she repeated.

Sandor briefly smiled and gestured at her middle, invisible under the loose shirt. Her eyes followed his stare then she looked up at him, brow furrowed. "In my condition?"

Her hands rested on her knees and Sandor immediately noticed the absence of wedding ring. _Does it mean I was wrong?_

"What- What did you imagine, Sandor? You thought- you thought I was pregnant?" A deep blush tinted her cheeks, forehead and throat as he mentally palm-faced. "What made you think I was pregnant?" she insisted.

_Oh no. She thinks I find her fat or something._ Could he tell her why he had imagined she was carrying a child?

"You're perfect the way you are," he said, before she could react. "Slender and pretty and everything. I thought you were pregnant because you're going to the fifth floor. _Orthopedics, gynecology, obstetrics,_" he recited.

"Oh my God, this is so embarrassing." The Little Bird was all flustered and he would be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy the situation. Unease had given place to amusement.

"Besides..." A devilish grin pulled the corners of his lips. "Your breasts are bigger than I remembered. Women have bigger tits when they're pregnant and-"

"No need to go on, I got your point," she cut him off angrily, crossing her arms about her chest in a self-protective gesture. She clearly wished to make herself inconspicuous, yet in the confined space where they were stuck, she would have to bear his gaze on her until someone fixed the elevator.

Sandor kept observing her, relishing her embarrassment. Beyond the the strange relief he experienced now that he knew she wasn't pregnant, there was something he couldn't quite place, something that budded inside him, making him feel awkward and very strong at the same time. He thought he had lost this sensation forever and all of a sudden, the last years spent between the hospital, the boxing gym and the quiet little house he lived in, seemed dull in comparison. _That's what I feel when I'm with her. She makes me feel alive._

"You still loathe my bad manners, girl." In order to narrow the space between them, he leaned forward, smiling and forgetting about the pain in his leg.

"You've changed, though," she stated timidly and he could only nod at this.

"But you still hate my bad manners, don't you?"

"I don't know."

Silence stretched in the elevator car, giving him plenty of time to ponder what was going on and what could be the consequences. There were only two questions that mattered: did he want her back in his life? And if so, was she ready to welcome him?

A quick glance at her reddened cheeks confirmed what he feared and anticipated at the same time. Sansa Stark was like hard liquor for a former alcoholic: a sip was enough to get intoxicated and to relapse. Meeting her in this place, years after he left her during that dreadful night, destroyed his efforts to forget her. _Not that I truly wanted to forget about a girl like her._ Her shyness, her blue gaze half-hidden under long eyelashes were his gin, his whiskey. They set his pulse racing and they made every sensation more intense. Sandor licked his lips.

"So why are you here?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. He regretted his question instantly. "I'm a fucking moron. I shouldn't ask, you don't owe me an explanation."

"It's alright," she replied, smiling, hands folded in her lap. "I work here. Yesterday was my first day, that's why I didn't want to arrive late this morning. I guess we only have to wait now and I hope they won't be mad at me..."

Sandor shook his head reassuringly. "I'm sure they won't. Do you work in obstetrics?"

Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips formed a little 'O'. "What's the matter with obstetrics? I work in orthopedics, as a nurse. There was a time when I thought I could become a surgeon or something, but I guess being a nurse isn't that bad for a girl whose school years have been a bit... complicated."

_How did she manage to study with all the shit that happened?_ Though the girl didn't say much about her past so far, she made him feel like the last few years had been rough on her. _How could it be otherwise between the Lannisters and Baelish? What happened to him, by the way?_ As far as he knew, the Lannisters had lost their influence, now that Joffrey, Tywin and Kevan were dead. Besides, with Cersei in jail, the golden family's depravity had been revealed to the world. Petyr Baelish's fate remained more mysterious.

"What- what happened after I... left?" he asked. _After I deserted, after I abandoned you._

Eyes downcast, Sansa watched the floor covering. A tiny smile pulled the corners of her lips and disappeared quickly. "It's a long story, Sandor."

He shrugged. "It looks as if we have plenty of time, girl."

Sandor saw her swallowing painfully; as her unease was tangible, he shifted and sat beside her, so that she wouldn't feel his stare directed at her. The Little Bird still hesitated, wringing her hands nervously, but in the end, she began to talk about the aftermath of the confrontation between the Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon. Words didn't come easily; there were silences between her revelations about her last months with the Lannisters.

Joffrey was supposed to marry Sansa when she was old enough, but he had changed his mind and got engaged to a Tyrell girl instead. After that, Sansa had been married to the Imp, then she had escaped with Littlefinger after Joffrey's death. With Baelish, things didn't get any better; in veiled terms, she told Sandor the man wanted her for himself. He had married her to another man, though, a guy she called Harry. One day, she had found the strength to escape their stylish villa and she had lived on her own.

"My father's friends helped me," she added, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "I was lucky enough to find them and they protected me ever since. Jon Umber even paid my tuition fees, when I told him I wanted to become a nurse."

There was gratefulness in her tone, yet it stung: she would never feel that gratefulness towards him since he had done nothing to deserve it, leaving her alone in the lion's den.

"So you went back North?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, but as much as I love the North, I feel like it's time for me to move on and to stand on my own two feet. Finding a job here, rather far from the North was a good opportunity. I took it as the sign I had to leave things behind."

"I can't believe you live here." He was thinking out loud and he instantly wished he could take back his words, for the enthusiasm they conveyed could only scare the girl away.

"I don't live here yet. I took a room in a motel and I finally found a small apartment by the lake. I'll move next weekend. Quite an adventure but I'm very excited."

"Need some help, to make your move?"

Unbidden, his words surprised him as much as they surprised her. She swiveled her head, looking up at him. There was this lock of hair he wanted to tuck behind her ear; he couldn't help staring at it, thinking all he had to do was extend his hand and gently replace it. _Since when have we been so close?_ The answer was quite obvious: since he had sneaked in her bedroom at the Lannisters' and waited for her in the dark before scaring the crap out of her. _I was a brute and a fool. I spoiled everything. She'll never understand I've changed._

"Forget it. Forget what I've said-" he spat.

A tiny hand landed on his forearm, making him gasp. "No, no, you don't get it, Sandor. It's just that I'm surprised and- I didn't expect you to offer your help. Besides, with your leg-"

"You think I'm disabled? I'm not a cripple!" He sounded like an angry child, now. _Better and better._ "I can't run the fucking one hundred meters, but I'm in better shape than most men you know."

"Of course, you're not a cripple! Tell me you know I didn't mean it," she nearly begged him, tightening her grip on him.

Maybe he was just taking his dreams for reality, but the Little Bird gave him a long look and he wondered if she wasn't ogling the old, lonely man he felt he was. Once more, an old reflex came back and he squared his shoulders: even if it was an illusion in all likelihood, it was good to be observed by Sansa Stark.

"I don't know, girl." _You're a bastard. She didn't mean it and you're torturing her._ "Alright. I guess you didn't mean it," he sighed.

There was a silence, then her voice surprised him by the bashfulness it exuded. "I'd be very happy if you came and helped me next Saturday. I don't know anyone here. Basically, it was what I wanted, but... it's good to know there's someone in this town I can rely on."

Pathetic as ever, he mumbled it was nothing and she frowned so deeply at that he wondered if she had understood his words. _She says she can rely on me. Can't be true..._ Before he convinced himself he was harboring illusions, she shifted and her bare shoulder brushed his. They were sitting side by side, the Little Bird chirping and him nodding silently, although he didn't pay much attention to what she said; he focused on the contact of her arm against his, experiencing a sensation he never had before and he didn't think he deserved.

Her pale, smooth skin was silky yes, but sometimes it was covered with goosebumps tickling his own skin. He told himself it was a minor detail, something so ordinary he was a fool to focus on it, yet the touch of her skin and the warmth emanating from the Little Bird seemed to ignite a fire extinguished long ago. _The embers weren't completely cold,_ he guessed, for a mere contact had relighted them.

Looking up at the CCTV camera, he asked himself if whoever was watching them could see how embarrassed he was. _And how intoxicated._ He was intoxicated by her contact, her smell, her sight.

All too soon, a voice coming from outside the elevator's shaft interrupted Sansa: the repairman was there. From that moment on, he did his best to regain his composure and the Little Bird went silent. At some point, he realized she was biting her lip again and he read it as a tell-tale sign of anxiousness.

He nudged her. "What's going on? A few more minutes and you'll be free to go. No more face to face with an old dog."

"Don't talk like that... I never understood why you let Joffrey call you 'Dog'."

"What's going on?" he insisted, locking eyes with her.

"I'm afraid the people I work with won't believe my story. I mean... I was already in a hurry when I took this elevator."

Sandor shrugged. "Do you know the Elder Brother?"

"You mean Doctor Knight? The head doctor? I didn't meet him yet, but I'm afraid-"

"I know the Elder Brother," he cut her off. "He performed surgery on me and as I spent more time here than I thought, he became a friend of mine."

She was impressed, on the evidence of her gasp of surprise and her hesitating smile. "Could you... Do you think you could ask him not to... banish me or something?" She was chuckling a bit nervously, but behind her smiles, her apprehension was palpable. "This job is very important for me, Sandor."

Her expression at that moment, as she bit her bottom lip and furrowed her brow, waiting for his answer, mesmerized him. The grating noise of metal roused himself from his thoughts.

"Guess I can do that for you," he rasped.

When the elevator finally went up, she was beaming at him; surprised by the sudden upward movement of the elevator, Sansa lost her balance and he needed to catch hold of her. Although his hand hardly lingered on her shoulder, he noticed the deep blush tinting her cheeks. On the position indicator, the number five shone and the elevator stopped, breaking the spell.

The very moment before the doors opened, while Sansa collected her things and got on her feet, Sandor could have sworn she was sighing and not with relief. Leaning on the handrail, he pushed himself from the floor, under her watchful gaze. As he raised to his full height, she probably didn't notice the half-smile his long dark hair hid.

"I can't believe the Elder Brother is your friend," she muttered thoughtfully, forcing a chuckle out of him.

They stepped out of the elevator, looking for the repairman who had seemingly vanished; around them, people came and went, some, wearing scrubs, hurrying in the hallway and other walking at a slow pace. By an unspoken consent, they stopped by the sign indicating the orthopedics and they stared silently at each other. Once in the orthopedics department, they would be a patient and a nurse again. She would focus on this new job that seemed so precious for her and Sandor would walk to the Elder Brother's office. He wouldn't be very attentive this morning and he guessed the Elder Brother would have to ask the same question twice before he gave the man a correct answer.

"Well, Sansa," he said, shrugging. "This is it."

Again, she bit her lip and he wished he could kiss her on the spot. On his right, he spotted their reflection in the glass facade; the rather tall, slender Little Bird looking so fragile in front of his hulking frame. _Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. We've both lost and gained things during these years. We're different and yet-_

"Were you serious when you said you would help me moving my things here?" she asked all a sudden.

"Of course, I was." Uncomfortable, he shoved one hand in his pocket while the other one clutched to the handle of his bag.

"I'm going to give you my number. Have you got some paper please?"

Too embarrassed to utter a proper response, he looked for a piece of paper in his bag and only found the paper envelope containing his x-rays. Sheepish, he retrieved it from his bag and handed it out to her. She smiled, then wrote down her phone number on it before giving it back to him with a pen, so that he could write his. In the end, she tore down the part where Sandor had scribbled his number and placed it in her purse. _Always well-organized._

Sansa said she would call to give him the details about next Saturday then he suggested he could walk her to the Elder Brother's office: she didn't dare refuse his help.

As they headed to his friend's office, at the other end of the hallway, Sandor felt strange. No matter how hard he tried to keep a straight face, something inside him wanted to explode and to gloat. Unintendedly, his mouth curved in a twisted smile, while he felt a knot in his stomach. For once, he rued the Elder Brother's judgment, understanding his unusual behavior wouldn't go unnoticed.

_He's going to see I'm bloody nervous._ That, and something else he couldn't quite place, especially when Sansa's arm brushed his by accident, as they walked side by side, the girl adjusting her pace to his slight limp. _Fuck it! He'll notice that I'm...happy._


	2. Episode 2

**I'm sorry I couldn't post this chapter earlier. As usual, the fantastic Underthenorthernlights beta read it.**

**This story will be longer than I thought at first - perhaps 10 chapters? The rating changed as well. There will be less angst than in my other stories and no violence. It's focused on Sandor's thoughts, his doubts and his fear of letting the chance pass him by, with lighter moments. In any case, I hope you'll enjoy it and I'll be glad to receive feedback.**

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After splashing water on his face, Sandor stood up straight and gave a disillusioned look at his reflection in the mirror. Behind the dark curtain of thin hair dripping in the sink, his asymmetric features were the same. _One side gaunt and unwelcoming, the other one burnt. _He smirked at the disfigured man in the mirror, then wiped away the shaving foam that remained on his cheekbone.

Sighing, he rested his palms on the sides of the sink and he leaned forward to scrutinize his reflection. On his good side, the lack of sleep due to what he didn't dare call nervousness had left marks, tracing thin lines at the corner of his eyes. On the temple, he could see some gray hair. _Stop it, you're being an asshole. This is not a beauty contest, you're going there to help her, nothing more._ Yet he knew he would have to bear the way other people look at him, and Sansa would be there, watching their reaction to his unexpected presence, possibly taking in their disgust.

For some reason, he suspected the others didn't know he would come and he dreaded the moment they would finally see him. Seven years later, he guessed they still associated his name with the Lannisters and their deeds. These people remained Eddard Stark's loyal friends and they lumped together all the persons who had wronged the Stark family; Sandor doubted the Northerners were able to see the difference between a sleazebag like Joffrey and those who had obeyed Joffrey's orders, like himself. _They don't want to make a fucking distinction,_ he mused bitterly, _and they're probably right: what's the difference between the bastard who commanded and the shithead who beat the girl?_

His jaw tense, he squeezed his eyes shut, spun on his heels and turned off the radio blaring on top of the washing machine, behind him. The fact he had never laid a hand on her but only watched as Meryn Trant slapped her didn't change anything: the persistent guilt would never vanish. _It's too late, now._ He had promised he would come to help her move and now that the Little Bird was going to work and to live there, in the same town where he ruled a boxing gym, he couldn't just stood her up because he was afraid of a bunch of Northerners, could he?

Running his hand on his still wet face, he turned to the mirror again, exhaled a deep sigh and tentatively combed his hair, so that it partly covered his scars. Then, after replacing the comb, the three-blade razor and the shaving foam inside the bathroom cupboard, he stretched his limbs, slightly arching his back in the process. When the towel around his hips fell to the tiled floor, he didn't pick it up and he finally walked back to the bedroom stark naked.

Sandor caught a glimpse at his reflection in the window panel - he usually didn't feel the need to close the blinds, as the bedroom looked towards the woods, preferring the pale light of dawn to wake him up to any alarm clock. He was in good shape, thanks to the exercise bench and the weights he lifted daily: the rippling muscles of his torso and arms proved it. Further down, below the dark area of his groin, the legs didn't look that bad, for a man who had suffered a bullet wound and its consequences. In the blurred image the window panel reflected, the scars on his thigh were barely visible, but the legs seemed strong and muscled.

_And all these efforts, what for?_ He had often wondered why he forced himself to do all this, while lying on the exercise bench, lifting the dumbbell until a glow of sweat covered his limbs. He wondered why he did it, yet he went on, calling himself a moron because it wouldn't be of any use now that his life had changed so drastically.

The day Sansa had showed up in the elevator, he had told himself that, perhaps exercising wasn't a waste of his time, that he had done something that would finally make sense. Now he didn't know anymore. With impatience, he went to the closet, picked boxer shorts, a pair of jeans and a checkered shirt. He couldn't make her wait, especially that day.

The morning sun was pale, outside, casting a wan light on the oak grove and the bush nearby. From his window, the landscape exuded something akin to serenity - it was one of the reasons why he had chosen this small house among dozens of others he had visited - yet this calmness failed to rub off on him that morning. After he opened the window and let the breeze cool the warmth on his face, he felt as if he was about to leap into the unknown. _Basically, that's exactly what it is._

Leaving his bedroom, he went to the kitchen and prepared some coffee. _I don't even have a proper coffee pot,_ he mused, putting two teaspoons of instant coffee in a mug, then pouring hot water on it. He stirred the mixture until an imperceptible cream-colored foam formed at the surface of the dark brown liquid.

Since he had met Sansa again, these kind of thoughts popped up in his mind and he called himself stupid and wondered what was suddenly wrong with the lack of a proper coffeepot. Unbeknownst to him, she had changed the way he considered his existence, and he now saw everything in a new light: some aspects of his life, like the boxing gym, were achievements he could be proud of and they had gained in value because Sansa Stark prized them. Some others didn't bother him so far - the Spartan equipment of his house, for instance - but he now questioned his choices and feared her reaction, should she visit him someday.

Drinking coffee - piping hot and tasteless - didn't soothe his nerves. In the foolish dreams he had had the past few days, Sansa inevitably knocked at his door and came in. These dreams were only dreams and senseless ones, to say the least, he kept repeating this to himself, but what if she visited him for real and found nothing else to drink than beer and instant coffee? For the first time, material concerns like tableware, the contents of his fridge or the clothes he wore began to worry him.

The Elder Brother had seen the change in him instantly, the other day, Sandor acknowledged it as he wiped the corners of his mouth, leaning his elbows against the table. He remembered the surgeon's amused look when he had come in his office, Sansa on his heels. The man was too polite to make any comment, but the notion his former patient and the new recruit of the orthopedic department knew each other forced a smile out of him. _Or was it my pathetic look when she left?_ In any case, the Elder Brother had behaved as if nothing had happened, before telling Sandor he really needed a break and suggesting they took a beer somewhere in town that evening.

It was only then, as the sun went down and set fire to the horizon, casting a red light on the riverbank, that the Elder Brother had begun to question him.

"So she's back in your life?" he had asked Sandor. They were sitting outside the bar; only the street separated them from the riverbank and instead of holding the Elder Brother's stare, it was easier for Sandor to pretend he was mesmerized by the golden liquid in his pint glass.

"Dunno. We met again, that's all."

As he perfected his sulky attitude, round-shouldered and playing with the cardboard coaster, the Elder Brother kept staring at him. "So... you're free on Saturday?" he said innocently.

"No, I'm not. Why?" This time, Sandor raised his eyes and gazed at the bald, middle-aged man sitting opposite to him.

"What do you plan to do next Saturday, then?" the surgeon went on.

"Is it a fucking police interrogation? I thought we were done with this shit," he growled.

Seated right up against the back of his chair so far, the Elder Brother leaned forward, grinning. "You used to do a better job at hiding your embarrassment behind feigned anger, before..."

Sandor cursed in an undertone and took a sip of beer. "The girl is supposed to move to a new place. I will help her, period."

"So seven years later, you meet again a girl, who would never forgive you for what you've done, according to you… You two spend half-an-hour talking, she asks your help to move, you say yes… and she's not back in your life?" The Elder Brother's incredulous smile was unpleasant, to put it mildly.

"How did you know it's on Saturday?" Sandor rasped, trying to ignore his friend's sarcasm.

"Easy. Before leaving, she said she would give you a call 'to sort out the details about Saturday morning.' You nodded eagerly at that."

A gulp of beer wasn't enough to disguise his awkwardness. "So I can't help a friend without having you misinterpreting my actions?" Sandor replied, bending forward and leaning his elbows on the small wooden table.

"Oh, come on. You know better than to bury your head in the sand, don't you? Is she a friend, Sandor? What do you intend to do about this girl?"

Sandor was at a loss. To put up a front, he retrieved his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans and he took one, then he nervously looked for his lighter and lit the cigarette with difficulty. He was trying to quit, hadn't smoke in a while, but _this_ was too much for him. Besides, he knew the Elder Brother disapproved and he couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing something transgressive, something that infuriated the doctor. The first drag was a relief, the second one - a long, exaggerated drag - was even better.

Smiling rather wickedly at the Elder Brother, Sandor jabbed a finger at his face. "You know you sound like her fucking father now?"

Across the table, the surgeon pinched the bridge of his veined, red nose between his thumb and his forefinger, then he smiled back: "Funny how you overreact when it comes to her… Did you spend the day playing the conversation you had with her back in your mind? Oh, and stop scratching your tattoo, please."

Sandor looked down and froze; without him noticing, he was scratching a spot on his chest, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Settling back in his seat and folding his arms, he sighed deeply. The Elder Brother had a talent for diagnosing his patients; sometimes Sandor believed the man used his skills outside the hospital, to diagnose what was wrong with the people he met. More than once, during one of their conversations, he had felt like the Elder Brother observed him like a friend, but also like a patient, trying to detect symptoms of his uneasiness. _What kind of symptoms is he trying to discover, tonight?_

Later, after they parted, Sandor walked back to his old pick-up truck, hands shoved in his pockets. What were his intentions? Where would all this lead him? Things were going too fast, he told himself as images churned in his head. He already had his keys in hand when he spun on his heels and called the Elder Brother; the man was sitting in his dark gray sedan, ready to turn on the ignition. Sandor almost ran towards him despite his limp, thus drawing the Elder Brother's attention on his leg. Frowning with concern, the surgeon got out of the car.

"What if she has a boyfriend?" Sandor heard himself ask.

The Elder Brother didn't expect that question, for his eyes widened like saucers. It took him some time to finally answer: "In this case, you'll do what you already did once. You'll stay in the background, observing, making sure she's OK."

"I didn't make sure she was OK," Sandor retorted, feeling like his voice was breaking. "I just... walked away."

There was a silence. At nightfall, the Elder Brother's expression was unreadable and the street lamps were too far to light his square face. In the end, his response came like a whisper. "You were unable to take care of anyone back then. Now you could watch over her if necessary. If she- If Sansa has someone in her life, I know you'll… step back. Because there's one thing we know for sure, you and I: you want this girl to be happy. In this case, if things don't turn like you expect them to, I'll be there."

And that was all; the Elder Brother didn't wait for his reaction and he got in his car, before going into reverse and leaving Sandor alone in the parking lot, with his interrogations and his doubts. Looking defeated as the lights of the Elder Brother's car disappeared at the corner of the street, he admitted the man was right: he had spent the day playing the conversation back in his mind, wondering why he had not found the strength to ask her more about her past. _Pathetic._

Four days later, in the silence the outdated kitchen of his small house offered, Sandor still mulled over the Elder Brother's advice, wondering if he was able to step back, in case Sansa Stark had met someone. Looking back, he loathed the short-tempered, violent man he once was; the notion his older self could come back any day, if only something big happened, like a disillusion - he didn't dare think a romantic disappointment - scared him. He now had a quiet - if not happy - life: he didn't want to lose the little calmness he had found.

He knew it; despite her charming appearance, Sansa Stark was a storm. She had brought chaos in his life, playing havoc with his habits and his values, questioning his loyalty towards the Lannisters. There had been two brutal changes in his life so far: his father's death when he was a kid, leading him to seek the Lannisters' protection, and his leaving on an impulse, seven years before. It wasn't a coincidence if he had left the Lannisters' service after he had met her. If his brother Gregor had caused their father's untimely end, thus forcing him to leave home, Sansa's influence had been as decisive the day he had given up his job as the Lannisters' enforcer, even if it wasn't obvious for a third party.

The Elder Brother had called him again the night before. They seldom called each other, the surgeon preferring to show up at the boxing gym whenever he wanted to talk to him. Sandor had guessed there was something unusual and he was right: the content of their discussion was unexpected at the very least.

"I've been talking with Sansa Stark," the Elder Brother had confessed, after the customary small talk.

On the other end of the line, Sandor had remained silent, then he had finally replied: "Good for you."

"She said she's- She's single," he went on.

"What- Why did you ask her?" Sandor boomed. "She knows I'm a friend of yours, she's far from being stupid…"

"I didn't ask her directly, I made sure that she felt comfortable enough to confide in me."

Sandor facepalmed; he knew exactly what the Elder Brother was talking about, for he had experienced the same situation when he had met the man. He didn't know how the doctor managed to make people confide in him, but he never failed to learn what he wanted.

"I thought this information could be of some use," the Elder Brother added. With his guileless and even words, he had the knack of getting on Sandor's nerves. Just like the night they had drunk a beer by the riverside, he didn't wait for Sandor's reaction to take his leave; he hanged up, and Sandor stayed there for a few seconds, listening to the unpleasant beeps.

Maybe the Elder Brother's call the night before had something to do with his sleeplessness, he told himself, as he replaced the mug on the kitchen table. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sandor got on his feet and put down the now empty mug in the sink. Although he never lacked appetite, he simply couldn't eat that day. For the tenth time that morning, he called himself a moron, then he put on his shoes and shoved his wallet and his cigarettes in his back pocket: it was time to go.

The Little Bird had asked him to come bright and early to the motel where she had spent the last two weeks, so that they could go together to her new apartment. She didn't have the keys yet and she was supposed to meet the owner at that moment: he suspected she wanted him to be there because all this was new for her. The notion she still sought his protection, years after, even if she was a grown woman, awakened something inside him he couldn't quite place.

_Stop reacting like a fucking schoolgirl_, he chided himself as he got into his truck. The engine roared when he turned the ignition key, uselessly underlining his nervousness. Sansa had given him the motel's address two days ago, on the phone: he knew the place or at least he sometimes went past the seedy building it had become.

Imagining her alone in this motel didn't please Sandor: it wasn't a place for a girl like Sansa Stark. _Yet there's so many things about her I ignore._ He pictured her coming back to the motel after a long day at the hospital, trying to find some peace in a room which was probably too small and smelt of stale tobacco. The only distraction being a TV, she probably fell asleep very soon, and he imagined her lying in bed, squeezing her pillow as the now useless screen flashed its garish light and its distorted images on the bedspread. The very notion of Sansa Stark lying in her bed was enough to bring back the discomfort in his pants, although he had given himself some relief in the shower, a while ago. _One more thing that didn't change, years after._

All too soon, he arrived in the parking lot of the motel, pulled over and got out of his car. She had given him her room number and he felt his heart thumping in his chest as he climbed the stairs leading to the upper level. _Room 13. _He stopped in front of the door, glanced at his watch and took a sharp intake of breath. _It's time._

After he knocked at the door and before she opened, the maddening thought there could be someone else inside with her tormented him and his throat was so dry when the door finally creaked open that he couldn't say hello.

"Please come in," Sansa nonetheless told him.

With her denim overalls and her white tank-top, she looked like she was ready to do home improvements; a pair of red, worn-out Converse completed her outfit. She had put her brown hair up in a ponytail. That was something that amused him when Sansa was a teenager: she always picked her clothes with great care, as if there must be a dress for every occasion. He stepped in. The only window didn't give much light and the room smelt of cigarette, just like he had imagined.

"So," she said, wringing her hands, "was it difficult to find the motel?"

He replied he lived nearby and often went past the motel; she chuckled nervously and an awkward silence descended upon them. In the meantime, he swept the room and took in the two duffel bags she had put down on the fusty carpet with a plastic bag containing a wash basin and some detergent. There was a guitar case on the bed. _It's about time she leaves this place._

"Is all your luggage here?" he inquired, pointing at the duffel bags.

"I traveled light. I knew I wouldn't stay here forever. All my stuff stayed in the North. Uncle Brynden and the others will bring everything; Rickon texted me, saying they would be here before noon."

_Does she chirp because she's nervous too? Why in hell would she be nervous? _His eyes drifted back to the guitar case. "So you play the guitar?"

She nodded, a mix of pride and embarrassment making her blush.

"You played the piano back then…" he observed thoughtfully. "Don't remember you with a guitar." He moved past her, leaning forward to take the guitar case, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair in the process.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," she said with a mysterious smile.

The night he had offered to take her with him, far from the Lannisters, he was drunk, violent and he didn't have a clue about what he was going to do with her. _Statutory rape. That's what they call it. I would have committed a crime. She said she didn't want to come with me, I could have taken her all the same but I didn't. At least, I did one good thing in my life. _The girl was right: he ignored most of her life, and although he had more often than not wondered about her attitude towards him when they both lived in the Lannisters' shadow, he acknowledged he still didn't understand what the hell she had in mind. Sansa Stark was an enigma: his favorite one.

"Maybe I'll sing for you one day, after all," she offered and her remark was like a punch in his stomach.

The Little Bird remembered their exchange, that night. _She's a grown woman, she knows by now what I meant at the time. Is she just playing with me? _He swallowed hard and found nothing to answer. Unlike him, she seemed serene and she certainly was happy to check out. She hummed as they left the room and went downstairs, with Sansa's luggage: he insisted to carry the duffel bags while she took her shoulder purse, the plastic bag and her guitar.

Once her things were inside Sandor's truck, they headed to the check-in desk and three minutes later, Sansa walked out, a broad grin on her face. Elated, she executed a dance step on the asphalt of the deserted parking lot, to Sandor's delight; some of her enthusiasm might have rubbed off on him for he chuckled. He resisted the urge to squeeze or to kiss her and took a cigarette instead.

"You mind if I smoke?" he asked, although he already held the cigarette between his chapped lips. He seriously needed the relief smoking gave him when he fidgeted and he doubted her reluctance - if she had ever expressed it - would have prevented him from lighting the cigarette.

Shoving her hands in the pockets of her overall, she shook her head then gave him a curt smile; he guessed she too disapproved his smoking pattern. Tilting his head back and blinking his eyes in the morning sun, he enjoyed the first drag, though he knew she was wondering why he had waited for her to leave the motel before lighting a cigarette if he needed it so badly. _And once more, I look like a pain in the ass._

Summer had just begun and as they stayed face to face in the parking lot, the sun blinded the Northern girl she still was; tired of shielding her blue eyes with her hand, she inspected the content of her purse until she found her sunglasses. In the meanwhile, Sandor stared at her full lips: he was dying to cup her chin and to run the pad of his thumb on her lower lip before kissing her - something he had never ventured to do.

If Sandor had failed to quit smoking, Sansa had kept what Cersei used to call a bad habit: her tendency to bite her bottom lip had not disappeared, and it only increased his desire. The more he craved to kiss her, the more he dragged on his cigarette. He realized smoking was just a pathetic attempt to stave off his need for her lips; that notion was disturbing enough for him to avert his eyes and to slightly turn so that she couldn't see his turmoil.

"If you take your car to go to your new place, I'll follow you," he offered after a while, still avoiding her gaze.

Sansa seemed to not understand why they were standing there, in the sun, when there was so much to do in her new apartment, yet she didn't make any comment, carefully observing his every move. Her politeness tinged with overindulgence reminded him of their relationship years before, when he couldn't stand her courtesy. The fingers of his left hand curled slowly until they formed a balled fist; he was more angry at himself than exasperated by her behavior though, and the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come.

In the end, as he inhaled the last long drags of his cigarette, Sandor was forced to admit they had to go. Once she gave him the address, he told her her apartment was located in a pleasant area of the town, thus reassuring her. Then he stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt, before shambling to his truck. Sansa was already heading to her car, an old Ford Taurus which blue body shone in the sun; he couldn't help smiling, realizing she took her sedan to the car wash on a regular basis. _At least I taught her something._

As he followed her car to her new apartment, he couldn't help glancing from time to time to the guitar case Sansa had left on the passenger seat, trying to picture her playing the guitar. All the changes he had noticed in her so far roused his curiosity and only made him want to know more about the seven years she had spent far from him. Ahead of his truck, Sansa was very careful not to drive over the speed limit nor to forget to use the blinker: that was exactly what he expected from her.

They soon arrived in the street Sansa had mentioned, entered a parking lot then she pulled over in front of a rather new condominium. Sandor followed suit and parked his truck next to hers, but to his great confusion, she didn't get out. Through the car window, he watched her taking her phone and reading her texts; it wasn't good news, most likely, for she frowned deeply. Eager to know what was going on, Sandor unbuckled his seatbelt and eased himself out of his truck. The moment he slammed the door, she swiveled her head towards him and she beckoned Sandor to come sit inside her car.

With his uncommon build, he felt cramped for room in Sansa's car. "What's the news?" he asked her, still wriggling and trying to find enough space for his long legs.

"Nothing serious. The owner says he'll be late. He hasn't even left his home yet. I'm sorry you'll have to wait."

Sandor mumbled it didn't matter and they exchanged a few words about Sansa's first visit to this apartment and the appearance of the condo: it seemed quiet and well-maintained. In the end, he turned on the car radio, curious to know what kind of music she was listening. He recognized the Arctic Monkeys and on the evidence of her half-smile, she was pleased to share this with him but also embarrassed. If she was one of these persons who think listening to music with other people is something as intimate as being naked in front of them, Sandor could understand; although he never considered himself an artist, he didn't like sharing with others the music he enjoyed. _Music tells more about people that the clothes one wears or the car one drives._

If the song was pleasant, he could tell rock music was not what he expected her to listen. He remembered a naive girl humming the smash hits of pop stars, whereas this song exuded disillusion and irony. _Quite a change._ As they listened to the music, sitting side by side and wordless, Sandor almost regretted his decision to turn on the car radio: instead of filling time, it only raised more questions about what had happened to her during these years and Sandor was convinced a heavy silence would fall upon them once the song would be over.

_So we all go back to yours and you sit and talk to me on the floor_

_There's no need to show me round baby, I feel like I've been in here before_

_I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,_

_Will you pour me one for the road?_

Swallowing hard, he stole a glance at her; once again, she was biting her lip, gazing at something straight ahead. She felt the same uneasiness in all likelihood and she suddenly looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, mirroring his attitude. The eye contact was brief and it encapsulated all the tension existing between them since their encounter in the hospital, all their expectations as well. For a split second, he thought he could lean towards Sansa and kiss her, yet he only envisioned it without being able to take action.

Would she ask him to stay once the Northerners would leave and drive back home? Would she politely thank him and let him go while one of the Northerners would stay with her? _Why am I even listening to this fucking song? Why does the bawling of a damn English singer affect me? _The harm had been done: the song was stuck in his head and the last line of the chorus would haunt him for the rest of the day.

All of a sudden, a black sedan arrived and parked next to Sansa's. She recognized the owner of the apartment and she rushed out of the car. Was she relieved by the owner's arrival that distracted her from the tension remaining between them or did she got out of her car hurriedly out of politeness? As Sandor wondered if she expected him to come with her or if she preferred to be alone with the owner, he realized his life was less complicated before her arrival in town. _Less complicated and somewhat boring. I don't want her to go now. _There was something else he couldn't place, but he decided his interrogations about Sansa Stark's return could wait: she had just motioned him out of the car.

He curtly nodded at the old man who rented the apartment to Sansa, taking in the man's visible discomfort at the sight of Sandor's scars. Short-legged and rather smiling whenever he addressed Sansa, the owner led them to the apartment located by the swimming-pool. The man opened the door and they all went in; Sandor was quite relieved to see she had chosen a bright, nice apartment, with a separated bedroom looking onto the garden and a rather large bathroom. He stayed silent while the owner and Sansa completed formalities.

From time to time, Sandor caught the owner's puzzled glances and he understood the man was wondering what he was doing with a girl like Sansa. At some point, he even asked her if she lived alone and Sansa replied evasively, calling Sandor a friend. _So is this how you consider me? A friend?_ He didn't know if it was flattering or if he should take it as a warning a shoulder to cry on was the only thing she expected from him.

When the man left, Sansa turned to him with a happy grin. "I finally live in my own apartment!" she said triumphantly.

Whatever twisted smile he gave her satisfied Sansa for she squeezed his forearm with excitement and walked back outside to retrieve her luggage from Sandor's truck. They carried the two duffel bags, the plastic bag and the guitar case to her bedroom; empty, the room seemed probably smaller than it really was.

She squatted in front of the first duffel bag and opened the zip, sighing. For a few seconds, nothing happened and she silently contemplated the clothes inside her bag, until she raised her eyes and took in his large frame in the doorway.

"I'm sorry there's not even a chair so you can sit down," she apologized.

"Didn't I tell you I'm not a cripple?" He sounded much more angry than he wanted and he rued his gravelly voice that made his every word aggressive.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean- Whatever."

Eyes downcast, she reminded him of the young, impressionable girl he had met years before and he felt guilty at once. Sandor took a step forward. "How can I help you?" he asked, softening. He knelt down because he couldn't stay for a long time crouching, and he observed her reaction: the girl was at a loss, probably asking herself why he was reacting like this, sometimes ready to snarl at her and almost apologizing one minute later.

"Well, can you fetch me some water?" she said, handing him the small plastic wash basin. "I want to put my clothes away in the closet, but I'd like to clean the closet before."

"It looks clean, to me," he rasped.

Her soft, tinkling laugh resonated in the empty bedroom. "You never know what people stored in a closet, before you moved in. I suppose you find this useless. Oh well…"

She was so pretty at that very moment with one suspenders of her denim overall dangerously sliding off her shoulder he found nothing to answer back with and went directly to the kitchen sink, while she brought a sponge and some detergent out of the plastic bag. After he came back to the bedroom, he watched her as she cleaned the shelves. Once she was satisfied, she wiped her forehead and turned to him.

"I know what you think," she said, breaking the silence. "You're telling yourself "She's such a princess." You're probably right."

"I defy you to guess what I'm thinking right now," he replied, his gray eyes challenging hers.

There must have been something in his tone that made her uncomfortable, for she averted her eyes. He didn't suspect he could stare her out so easily and he found himself bothered by her sudden shyness, as if his words conveyed some innuendo he wasn't aware of.

She cleared her throat. "Can you give me the clothes, now? I'll put them away in the closet," she offered, taking a tentative step towards him although she still had trouble to hold his gaze.

Sandor knelt down by the open duffel bag and began to retrieve clothes from it. The situation was unusual for him and even unique. Under his callous hands, her skirts and her sweaters seemed so soft he wondered at some point if he had a right to touch them. She picked these clothes in the morning, probably placing them on her bed and chewing her lip to decide if this dress or this Tee-shirt was appropriate. Touching things that belonged to her, that wrapped her in a soft, silky cocoon bordered on sacrilege. Careful not to crease the clothes she had meticulously folded, he held them with both hands, before handing them to Sansa who arranged them in the closet.

"Does it hurt?" she suddenly asked him. Her voice exuded concern.

"What are you talking about?"

"When you stay on your knees for a while, like you're doing now, does it hurt?"

He shook his head, both pleased and embarrassed to notice she worried about him. As he thrusted his hand again into the duffel bag, his fingers found the hard surface of a picture frame; intrigued, he retrieved it from the bag and showed it to Sansa. She remained still at first, then she swallowed hard and he suspected she was about to cry. The picture was one of those family portraits people hang on the wall of their family room to convince visitors they're happy and normal. In this case, the picture showed the Stark family before the tragedies that had struck them. Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn were sitting outside, most likely in the garden of their house, Winterfell, their five children surrounding them. Even Jon, Eddard's son from his first marriage, was there.

_Where are they all, now?_ Of course, the parents were dead and so was Robb, Sansa's elder brother. Jon was fighting abroad, as far as he knew, and if the youngest, Rickon, had finally made it back to the family house, Sansa had not seen her brother Bran in years. The boy was most likely in some ashram, racking his brains about questions that were best left unanswered, according to Sandor. As for the only sister Sansa had, Arya, the family's tomboy, she was missing. Unlike the young woman standing in front of him, the tall, stunning girl of the photo had red hair and a large grin. _Such a contrast._

Sandor wasn't sentimental by any means, but he acknowledged that, if there was something Sansa had to take with her, in addition to her clothes and her toilet bag, it was this photo. The girl took it, giving the picture a long look, as tears gathered at the corner of her eyes.

_Don't be a moron,_ he told himself. _Try to comfort her._ Sandor stood up with a grunt, hesitating. What was he supposed to do or to say? He tried to figure out what the Elder Brother would do in such a case but he rejected the idea at once: he wasn't the damn Elder Brother and Sansa was not one of those fucking patients the man tried to comfort everyday.

Instead of mimicking the Elder Brother, he took a sharp intake of breath and did what seemed right at that very moment: he stepped forward and brushed her arm up and down, as delicately as he could. When tears rolled freely down her cheeks, he regretted his gesture, but far from pushing him away, she shoved the picture frame in his hand and buried her face in his chest. His back stiffened and the shock was so violent he swayed a little at first, then he anchored his feet to the floor and wrapped a tentative arm around her waist.

Sandor should have said something, but soothing words were stuck in his throat. Ashamed by his own uselessness, he admitted he wasn't ready to comfort her because comfort was still something unfamiliar and even if his friendship with the Elder Brother had allowed him to confront his demons, he still felt like the little boy he once was, looking silently at his mother while she cried over Gregor's behavior.

He wasn't ready and the notion he couldn't do a good job at reassuring her disturbed him; how could he say he wanted her back in his life if he wasn't even able to share her sorrow and to dry her tears? Feeling helpless often resulted in fits of anger before he met the Elder Brother; that day, he didn't feel the tremor in his limb and the pressure in his head that foreshadowed outbreaks of violence, just the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Sansa was still shaking like a leaf in his arms, so he tightened her grip, unsure of what he was doing. If he tried to be honest with himself, her sobs brought him back to his childhood days, before he had hardened himself to resist Gregor's fiery temper, and it was this peculiar feeling - the feeling he was defenseless, like a child - that made him so uncomfortable. As she went on crying, his shirt was soon soaked and he couldn't help wondering if these tears dampened the tattoo on his chest he had gotten on a night of blackout binge. _No, don't think about it._ The tattoo was a reminder of his years adrift and he didn't want to mix up the wreck he was at that time and the man he tried to be now. _Yet if she sees this damn tattoo…_

Still convulsed with tears, she fisted the fabric of his shirt, until he felt bundled up; then, she stopped crying all of a sudden, let go of him to wipe her cheeks and sheepishly looked up at him. _What the hell am I supposed to say?_ Her eyes squeezed shut with a pained look, then they flew open. He felt as if the fingers of his right hand resting on the small of her back were burning and he slowly let go of her. His other still held the picture frame; when she took a step back, he took it in both hands, to put up a front.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't sleep well because I was too excited. People think I'm strong, but I just fake. I know I made a choice when I decided I would start a new life here, but sometimes, when I see my parents' picture, I just-" She stopped short from saying more and covered her mouth with her shaky hand.

"It's alright," he said, remembering it was one of the Elder Brother's favorite expressions. He wondered if he should put the picture frame back in the bag or not, then she sniffed and held out her tiny hand. Sandor gave her the frame and watched her as she walked towards the empty place where they would most likely put her bed and her night stand; squatting, she set down the picture frame, so that it stood against the wall. Then, she slowly stepped backwards, looking at the family portrait, until she almost bumped into Sandor. He mirrored her expression, gazing at the photo for a while before feeling the urge to break the silence.

"I liked your red hair," he confessed in an undertone, whispering as if they stood in a church, looking at some icon.

She didn't swivel her head to glance at him, yet the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.

"I guess it's time I stop dying my hair," she observed. "I'm not a runaway anymore, am I?"

In the silence of the bedroom, he didn't dare add anything. Nothing important had happened since he had left his house that morning, yet the aggregation of all the tiny events that had taken place made his head spin: since when had he experienced all these contradictory emotions, feeling stupid, then elated, confused, then disappointed, sad and so happy at the same time?

When her fingers brushed his hand, asking silently his support and whatever comfort he could give her, his back stiffened but he couldn't refuse. Her hand seemed tiny in his, and he called himself a moron for his palm was callous and probably sweaty.

Clammy or not, his hand reassured her and that was for the best. Sandor slightly turned to face her, observing her profile, making sure that she wasn't about to cry again. If she was paying attention to his labored breath, she didn't show it; only did she cock her head to the side the moment he leaned towards her, trying to find the strength to kiss her lips. _What do you have in mind?_ her inquiring gaze asked. She very well knew what he was thinking about though, because she spun on her heels and faced him. Still hesitating, he drank in her sight, trying to etch in his memory her fragile look and her full lips the moment before their first kiss.

Determined and loud, a knock at the front door ruined everything. "Sansa!" a boyish voice shouted.

Sandor stepped back at once, arms dangling. The Northerners had arrived.


	3. Episode 3

**As usual, Underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter. Thank you so much UTNL!**

**Author's notes: As Rickon makes an appearance in this chapter, I wanted to warn you that this is how I imagined him, in the future, but it's just my version of this character. I based his behavior on my observations: I met some children who grew up only surrounded by adults and who faced difficult moments. They often behave this way.**

* * *

The moment she heard her young brother's voice, Sandor noticed that Sansa seemed to forget about him and hurried to the entrance door. Head-hanging, Sandor stayed in the bedroom for a few heartbeats then he followed her, whispering to himself like a mantra: _Might as well say a quick hello and get down to business. _He knew that meeting the Northerners would be no pleasure cruise.

With his gimpy leg, he sounded like he dragged his feet on the floor and he couldn't help frowning at the thought that the Northerners would pity him. Sandor nonetheless headed to the entrance door, ready to endure their wary looks when they would notice his scars. _And remember who I am_. Just like his scars, his bad reputation was indelible.

When he reached the main room, Sansa was hugging a tall kid with long auburn hair and bright eyes. _This one must be her little brother, Rickon._ As Sansa stepped back to welcome her great-uncle and the three more young men crammed in the doorway, Sandor noticed the boy's worn out T-shirt, with one sleeve torn and Ian Curtis' face on it. _Joy Division. I see. The kid knows the classics, at least. _Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rickon Stark shot him a curious look - not that unpleasant stare revealing any kind of disgust, but his eyes shone with interest, leaving Sandor dumbfounded.

Standing on tiptoe, Sansa placed a light kiss on her uncle's gray temple, and the tall and lean old man beamed at her. They exchanged a few words in an undertone and Sandor understood that, behind his large grin, Brynden Tully still worried for her. Under his bushy eyebrows, he had those blue eyes Sansa and her brother Rickon had inherited from her mother. In the end, the old man clapped his hands once, moving forward so that the Northerners could come in.

Sandor shook hands with Rickon, then with Brynden Tully, before Sansa introduced the three young men who had come to help them. "This is Marlon Manderly, Wyman Manderly's cousin," she said with a bright smile, as a tall, stout man in his thirties stepped forward. He nodded curtly then he patted Sansa's shoulder with a grin. As he did so, he turned slightly to face the girl and Sandor saw the man had some gray hair. "Marlon, this is Sandor." She paused, before self consciously adding: "Sandor Clegane."

Nobody commented, but Rickon chuckled mercilessly at his sister's embarrassment, so that Ian Curtis' face on his shirt joggled strangely. Brynden Tully nudged the kid, without much success, and Sansa resumed her introduction. "So... Brandon Norrey Jr. His father and mine were old friends..." Said Brandon Norrey was short and thin compared to Marlon Manderly; he was also younger and there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes. Lifting his right hand, he quickly brushed his temple with two fingers, thus mimicking the salute. Whether it was a random gesture or an aforethought allusion to Sandor's past in armed forces, it was a mystery. _He looks like a fox, with his red hair and his mustache,_ Sandor mused.

"And finally my friend Harmond Umber," Sansa said, her voice tinged with pride. She didn't even feel the need to tell Sandor who he was to her family or if his father was an old friend of Eddard Stark: Sandor read this as a proof of their complicity. This one, almost as tall as Sandor and brawny, was certainly in favor: he squeezed Sansa in his arms, making her squeal in the process, then he burst out laughing. As far as Sandor could tell, the giant was the same age as Sansa: a younger, more attractive and more likeable version of himself. _And to think he's a Northerner, on top of that._

"I missed you, kiddo," the giant said cheerfully, tousling her brown hair.

_What was that? _Sandor's doubts came back instantly as the bond existing between these two became tangible with each passing second. Half-laughing, Sansa accused Harmond not to answer her texts, jabbing a finger at his muscled chest; the young man stroke his stubble with amusement, observing his friend with a telltale smile that said "_I know you've got a soft spot for me."_ In the end, Harmond Umber seemed to realize the world wasn't limited to Sansa and himself; he stepped forward and shook hands with Sandor, looking at him straight in the eyes. _He's not even unpleasant: life is unfair._

"Let's get started," Brynden Tully suggested, rubbing a hand on his beard. "Can we look around the property, Sansa?"

She nodded at that and showed them the open kitchen, with a place for the fridge the Northerners had brought with them.

"Are you tired?" Sansa asked as they examined the main room and the view onto the swimming-pool. "Everything went smoothly?"

Rickon snorted. "Marlon didn't tell you, sis? The moving van he had rented overturned in the ditch with all your stuff."

"Very funny, Rickon."

"Everything's alright," Marlon said, his booming voice resonating strangely in the empty space of the living room. "I drove the moving van and I managed not to kill these two assholes, while your uncle Brynden and this runt you call your brother took their car."

"We got up at 4 o'clock to be here at noon, like we said, baby." Brandon grinned smugly under his mustache.

"If you have a couch, it should be placed here," Sandor intervened, showing the wall opposite to the entrance door. Hiding his annoyance was more difficult than he thought and Rickon had probably noticed it, for he chuckled nervously. Sansa nodded and led them to the bathroom, then to her bedroom. The moment Brynden Tully set eyes on the family portrait in its frame, he placed his large hand on Sansa's shoulder.

"I'm fine," she said, stubborn as ever. "Can we go to the moving van, now?"

One minute later, they were outside and Marlon Manderly opened the van containing Sansa's furniture and possessions. Among the random IKEA furniture, Sandor noticed a table with its chairs and a bookcase carefully wrapped in moving blankets. He assumed this furniture came from her parents' home, Winterfell. Sansa climbed inside the trailer and inspected them, putting aside the blanket whenever she could and running her slender fingers on the wooden surface. Satisfied, she turned to them and they began to carry the furniture inside.

Amongst all the consequences of his wound - the never-ending stay at the hospital, the rehabilitation, the pain that came back with every bad turn in the weather, the fact that he limped - there was one thing Sandor hated: not being able to do what he used to do before. That, and inappropriate sollicitude. He bit the bullet whenever people expressed their pity towards him. In this case, Marlon politely refused his help to carry the couch and asked Rickon instead, making him feel like he was useless.

Sansa probably sensed it, for she beckoned Sandor to follow her inside the apartment where boxes already waited for someone to empty them. He champed at the bit while the young Northerners carried the furniture and Sansa's brand new fridge, still wrapped in plastic.

"Someone needs to unwrap it and to plug it in," she observed once the Northerners left, eager to carry the imposing bookcase and to show their strength to each other.

They unwrapped the silvery refrigerator, before removing the foam core and they placed it at the exact spot Sansa had chosen, moving the device inch by inch, with great care. In the end, Sandor crouched to plug the fridge in while Sansa admired her kitchen.

"You do a lot of cooking?" she asked him. She sounded matter-of-fact.

"Do you fucking picture me with a chef's hat?" he growled, raising to his full height. "What about you, Little Bird?"

She laughed. "It- it depends. It's different if I'm alone or if I have guests." Maybe he was having visions, but she seemed to blush prettily after that. However, he didn't have much time to ponder over her attitude: her dear friend Harmond had just come in. Beaming at Sansa, he walked toward her and made her spin on her heels so that he was right behind her.

"Look at the fridge and tell me what you think, Harmond," she said cheerfully. Harmond's hands rested on her shoulders but she didn't seem to pay attention, as if it was something usual. "We placed it this way. I think it's more convenient and-"

Sandor didn't listen to the rest; he already felt like an intruder and he didn't want to interrupt anything - even if Harmond had been the one who had interrupted them. Dozens of questions churned in his head: if she was in love with this boy, why did she choose to move? Was Harmond ready to follow her and to find a job there? In this case, she had rented this apartment not only for herself but with the idea Harmond would join her soon. _Why is she playing with me?_ The notion she might be toying with his feelings - assuming he had feelings for her - hurt Sandor more deeply than he had imagined. Her attitude earlier in the bedroom, when she had cried on his shoulder came down to this: a farce and he had been taken for a ride. _So that's it: she wanted someone's help for today and here I am, torturing myself because I believed she wanted me to be here for another reason than just carrying boxes._

He was furious at himself and as usual when irritation took hold of him, he regretted his exercise bench and his dumbbells; exercise soothed his nerves and he had found this way to deal with anger since he had moderated his alcohol consumption. Jaw clenched, he dwelt on his rage and went outside. Rickon was there, puffing and panting inside the trailer: he tried to carry a box full of tableware. Sansa's little brother was sixteen or so, according to Sandor, and he wasn't muscled like his older companions.

"Can you help me, dude?" Rickon asked. _At least someone needs my help._

Sandor didn't like being called 'dude' in the boxing gym and he didn't like it outside either. He didn't raise his voice about it though; he climbed inside the trailer and he silently took one handle of the box while Rickon took the other one.

"So tell me something," Rickon began as they carried the heavy box out of the moving van. "My sister claims she stumbled upon you at the hospital where she works. Is that true?" Putting down the box after he got down from the trailer, he pushed back the long, unruly hair that hid his face.

"Why would Sansa lie to you?" Sandor countered.

"I don't know." Despite his innocent gaze, Rickon looked like some fucking boy too smart for his own good, who knew exactly why his sister would lie to him. "She thought you were dead, man."

_By the end of the day, he'll call me 'Sir',_ Sandor told himself, a sarcastic smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Hold on a minute," he told Rickon as they resumed their task. "If this box goes in the kitchen, we should wait."

Rickon's blue eyes widened like saucers. "Why? What's happening in the kitchen?" he asked, feigning sheer panic. Sandor, who wasn't in the mood for jokes, rolled his eyes. "What?" Rickon insisted.

"Your sister is in the kitchen with her... friend."

Rickon arched an eyebrow. "Her friend? Yes…" He put down the box but never stopped staring at Sandor. "Let's give them some privacy, then," he suggested, smiling with a knowing look. There was something disturbing about Rickon, because he sometimes spoke like a spoiled brat, while his candid eyes belied his mannerism. Sandor soon realized Rickon was about to laugh; he glared at him, just like he did when one of the boys he trained at the boxing gym misbehaved.

"You should see your face, man!" Rickon said, repressing a fit of laughter.

Sandor didn't understand why the sight of a man who had most likely let the chance pass him by was so funny.

* * *

His mood was somber during the lunch - Sansa had ordered pizzas and they had eaten in the main room, sitting on cardboard boxes that still contained books. Sandor wasn't sure anyone had noticed his silent hostility because Brandon Norrey spent his time telling jokes instead of eating and the rest of their little group laughed heartily.

The afternoon was a sad repetition of what had happened before lunch: the Northerners carried the remaining furniture, pieced together Sansa's bed and her desk, while Brynden Tully and Sansa put away the tableware and knickknack. Sandor ended up with Rickon again, arranging books in the bookshelf. Medicine, novels, poetry, leather bound books… He didn't know she possessed so many books and he didn't know either why these books should be sorted by domain then by alphabetical order.

"Looks like we've been punished," Rickon observed in an undertone, rearranging a book Sandor had put at the wrong place. His sister was within hearing range and he seemed to fear her reaction if she ever listened. "You look sulky," the boy added.

"We're almost done," Sandor explained. "Your sister still has some stuff to arrange in her closets and in the kitchen cupboards, but frankly, I feel like she doesn't need my help. I can't even carry furniture with my gimpy leg, or so _they_ say."

He didn't even try to hide his resentment towards the Northerners. For a change, the brat didn't know how to reply and they resumed their task in silence.

"There's a problem with the sink." Sansa's voice came from the bathroom, and Sandor turned his head instantly, thus making Rickon chuckle once more. When her slender frame appeared in the doorway, she set her eyes on Sandor and he felt suddenly weak. "There's a problem with the sink in the bathroom," she said again. "Could you have a look, Sandor? Please."

How could he refuse her anything? He left Rickon with the damn books, followed her to the bathroom. With its small hexagonal tiles on the floor and the large ones, black and pink, on the walls, it looked like the bathrooms of the first half of the twentieth century, although the shower and the pedestal sink were rather new. Sandor was certain this large, vintage bathroom was one of the things that had made her choose this apartment. After a quick look at the sink, he announced would need the tool box he kept in his truck.

Five minutes later, he was lying on the tiled floor, and he tried to unscrew the U-bend. The bathroom vanity was a random wooden shelf hidden by a curtain; Sandor had placed it in a corner to access the U-bend. The damn thing resisted, as if it was stuck. Sandor grimaced, stifled a curse and finally unscrewed it.

"Can you give me a plastic basin?" he asked her. She was standing by the sink and from where he was, he had a low-angle view on her long legs. _Lovely. _Lovely and cruel too, when he thought of the giant from the North who made her laugh so easily, it seemed. Sansa mumbled something, turned around and held out the basin he needed."Whoever lived here didn't see fit to unblock the U-bend," he added, shifting and sitting up.

The stench made her wrinkle her pretty nose when a heap of hair and filth fell in the basin with a squelch.

"There's something else," she whispered, once he was done. "I turned on the faucet, but I can't get hot water."

Sandor got on his feet with a grunt and tried the faucet, under Sansa's scrutiny. The water running on his fingers was cold, like Sansa had said. Suddenly having an idea, he turned the faucet all the way to the right, and then quickly removed his hand: the water went piping hot in no time and the burn briefly tinted his skin with pink.

"They inverted the cold and hot water. An easy mistake to make," he explained, turning to her and taking in her sight. Even with her denim overall and her tank top, she was stunning; Sandor made a tremendous effort not to drool over her but the closeness was something difficult for him to handle.

"I'm- I'm going to fix this," he said, feeling like he faltered before her like a fucking schoolboy.

"I don't want to bother you with this. It doesn't matter, as long as I know-"

"My pleasure." He was already crouching, trying to figure out which pipes had been inverted. The crouching position soon became uncomfortable and he lied down flat on his back again, extending his arms to reach the pipes.

"Are you angry at me, Sandor?" Her question felt like a punch in his guts. _Is it that obvious?_

"No, I'm not." His tone was too dry not to belie his words.

She knelt beside him and suddenly he could have a look at the sad smile on her face. "No need to pretend, Sandor. I know you are."

He stopped fumbling with the pipes and bored into her eyes. "Your friends made it clear; I'm not able to carry furniture, because of my leg. I feel like I'm good for nothing. I'm hardly able to arrange your books."

"But you're fixing the sink!" she protested, her high-pitched voice exuding disbelief.

"Any of your friends could have done this. I'm not mad at you, rather at myself for believing I could be of some use. I feel like I don't belong here." These last words summed up pretty much all he had experienced since his childhood.

Sansa sighed, head-hanging. "I'm sorry. I wanted you to be here. I never imagined you would-"

"Forget it, girl." Clenching his jaw, he focused on the pipes. "Could you turn off the water inlet?"

She stayed still for a heartbeat, staring at him, then she stood up and left the bathroom. _Congratulations: she's gone._ Sandor rued his habit to rebuff people while anyone else simply complained; with his last remark, he had made sure she wouldn't come back to him. Worse, at the end of the day, she would thank him with a forced smile. _I'm an asshole. She'll never want to see me again and she'll be right: she deserves someone better than a social outcast with a gimpy leg. _

A sigh escaped his lips; frowning, he asked himself if it was a sigh of frustration, because it was over and she would never forgive his foolish attitude. Perhaps he was relieved after all because it was over and he would leave the gray area where everything was possible, where he spent his time debating with himself about the slightest thing Sansa had done or said, trying to know what it meant. He would be soon in his comfort zone, going from the boxing gym to his house next to the woods. An occasional visit to the hospital, where he would make sure he didn't meet her. He had a curious sensation at the back of his mouth, but he refused to admit it was a lump in his throat.

Now that the water inlet was turned off, it was easy to switch the pipes. He concentrated on his task, with the faint hope that useful work could make him forget he was a bastard who rejected Sansa Stark's tender heart with obstinacy. _You don't allow anyone to come to you,_ the Elder Brother had told him, during one of their first conversations. _I didn't even learn my lesson, concerning her; I deserve all the bad things that happened to me, especially the fact that I'll die alone._

Yet Sansa had said something that puzzled him: _I wanted you to be here._ She had whispered these words with a pained look, and she probably meant it. _What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I the only person whom she said these words or did the Northern boys scouts heard that too? _Before he could decide, the door opened again and Sansa's mile long legs came into his field of vision. Both astonished and hesitating, he decided to remain silent.

He expected her to ask if he needed something or if he was almost done, but instead of restricting herself to the role of the perfect lady of the house, she surprised Sandor by kneeling next to him, then lying down so close her bare upper arm brushed the sleeve of his checkered shirt.

"I want to learn," she said quietly, " so that I can do it myself. Teach me." Her voice, poised and soft, didn't express the exasperation he had deserved for rebuking her five minutes before. The smell of her hair, light and floral, tickled his nose, and somehow forced him to pay attention to her and to her only; it felt like their worlds were colliding, hers invading his. There was nothing to do against that. _Nothing at all. Just yield._

Lying flat on her back, next to Sandor, she looked intently at him, and although the sink above their heads partially blocked the light, he could tell her blue eyes shone with determination. Unintendedly, he glanced at her cleavage. The wall lamp lit the front patch of her overall and a part of her white tank top underneath it; as they were both lying under the sink, shadows moved with the slow rise and fall of her chest. That sight, combined to the scent of her hair, was intoxicating. _Fuck, she's too close._ She seemed to blush. _Back to square one. Say something. Now._

He cleared his throat. "What- what do you want to learn?"

"Plumbing basics, if that makes sense."

He showed her the U-bend, told her she needed to unblock it from time to time and explained her how easy it was. "There's one thing you should not forget," he said in the end. "If it's not the U-bend or if you feel lazy, you can call me."

"So you don't feel useless?" Her pleading eyes bored into his, and he felt like she needed reassurance. As for him, he certainly needed to keep her lying next to him: it wasn't time to send her packing.

"No, I don't feel useless." An awkward silence stretched in the bathroom until Rickon's boyish voice reached them, somewhere else in the apartment, like a faraway sound. "Well, I've fixed the pipes, so you won't scald yourself when you turn on the faucet to get some cold water."

Sansa was so close she somewhat prevented him from getting on his feet. He contorted himself as she remained still but she stopped him. "Wait a minute! You have a tattoo on your chest now? I remembered the small ones on your arms, but not _that_ tattoo."

His shirt had opened while he squirmed to lie down or to get on his feet, most likely, revealing the letter S in gothic style, upstrokes and downstrokes of dark ink on his rather pale skin.

He stopped wriggling and rolled on one side, facing her. "Seeing me shirtless by the swimming-pool once when we both lived with the Lannisters doesn't give you a right to judge my tattoos," he retorted, frowning but playful. Leaning on his elbow, he watched her cheeks and throat redden with an inexplicable sense of pride. Talking with her - could he say flirting with her? - felt good. _Fuck, I missed that, too._

She laughed and locked eyes with him, before pushing aside the fabric of his shirt. "An S. Interesting. What does it mean? S for Sandor?" she offered. Her full lips curled up as she smiled, promising sweet kisses and songs hummed next to his ear, tempting him.

"Nope." The feel of her fingers on his chest was thrilling, but he still considered it dangerous. Sandor wondered if the losses Brynden Tully had experienced these last years had made him overprotective towards his nephew and niece; he took her small hand in his, not ungently, and he put it back on her belly. It could be all in his mind, but her breathing became faster and it drew Sandor's attention on her breasts. He hardened instantly.

"So what is it?" she asked again. "If you persist in keeping quiet, I'm going to believe there's something you don't want to tell me."

Basically, she hit the nail on the head. He didn't want her to know what the letter S on his chest, right above the heart, was for, and at the same time he died in want, to tell her. Regaining his composure, he stared Sansa down. "Take a wild guess," he rasped, challenging her. Now that he was lying on his side, he almost leaned over her.

She bit her lip and it became obvious that she loved the game they were playing - although there was something akin to apprehension in her eyes, because she didn't know what she was about to discover.

"S for snail? shoe? squirrel?" she enumerated. He slowly shook his head without ever breaking the eye contact. "S for-" She paused, hesitating, and anticipation set his pulse racing. _Say it. Deep down you know what it means._

The door flung open and Rickon came in uninvited. "What the fuck are you two doing here, on the bathroom floor?" he asked, dumbfounded and amused in equal parts. The sight of his sister lying flat on her back on the tiles while a man he barely knew leaned over her, was certainly entertaining for a teenager with a twisted mind. _And to think she had her hand on my chest a minute before..._

"Rickon, why do you always feel the need to curse like a sailor?" Sansa retorted, hiding her embarrassment under outrage. _The proper little lady is back. _She scrambled to her feet.

"Two things, sis," he said with his smartass tone. "First, "fuck" is not even a curse. I mean not anymore." Sansa tried to cut him off, put he pointed at her commandingly. "And I thought you liked guys who swear like troopers." Rickon gave his sister a devilish look. _What was that?_

Sansa glared at her brother and hurried to the kitchen. In the meanwhile, Rickon observed Sandor who was still lying on the tiled floor. Sandor didn't want to look like he fled the battleground; he slowly sat up, then got on his feet.

"We fixed the sink," he told the boy. As he walked to the door, he stopped by Rickon and towered above the brat.

"Yeah, I see that. Your shirt is unbuttoned, man."

Sandor shook his head disapprovingly and left the bathroom. In the empty hallway, he tried to suppress the stupid grin on his face, without much success.

* * *

At the end of the afternoon, Rickon sprawled on the couch and stared at the ceiling, blissfully happy. "I love this place," he announced. "It's sunny, compared to Winterfell, there's a swimming-pool and the neighbor's daughters are hot."

"Rickon!" Sansa protested.

"I tell you, sis, next month, when school is over, I'll come to visit you. And the neighbor's daughters." With a wicked grin, he stretched his limbs and closed his eyes, as if ready to take a nap.

Brynden Tully came closer silently then kicked his nephew's leg that dangled out of the couch. "Time to go, Rickon. If you don't want to spend the whole night on the road, we should leave your sister now."

Rickon grumbled, made faces and finally jumped on his feet. "It's unfair! I didn't come here to carry boxes and to unpack; I don't know shit about carrying boxes. I came for the party."

"Who told you there's a party?"

"There's always a party after," Rickon retorted, brushing back a lock of his hair. "That's when things become interesting." His enigmatic smile underlined his mischievous tone and it made his sister roll her eyes. Sandor asked himself what the kid suggested by this. Leaning against the doorframe, he observed the whole scene, amused by Sansa's exasperated look whenever she set her eyes on Rickon.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" Sansa asked her uncle, deliberately offering her back to her brother. "It's a long road. The boys told me they'll stay for dinner and-"

"I'd like to stay, sweetie," Brynden replied, "but this young man has a Calculus exam on monday and he needs to review differential calculus. Or whatever it is he learned this semester." With a pat on Rickon's shoulder, he laughed heartily.

By his side Rickon looked exaggeratingly defeated, his hunched shoulders and his sheepish expression meant to move his sister to pity.

"You want to make me cry or something?" she told him, cupping his chin. She didn't even sound surprised the kid overdid it.

Rickon was already taller than Sansa, yet at that very moment, as she was standing in front of her younger brother, Sandor had an inkling of what the last months had been like for her. She had taken care of Rickon since the day she had come back, supervising his homework, making sure he didn't mix with the wrong kind, meeting his teachers. She had been his mother figure, always sweet and tender, but scolding him when necessary. As she looked intently in Rickon's eyes, telling him to give her a call if he needed help with his Calculus lesson, Sandor foresaw the mother she would become one day, devoted, anxious about her children and always loving. Witnessing this scene, so common for most people, but so unfamiliar for Sandor made him feel strange. There was something deep down he couldn't quite place and he decided it was probably time for him to go back home.

Brynden Tully already walked toward him, smiling, his open look contrasting with the attitude Sandor had expected from him at first. "It was nice to meet you," the old man said, giving him a firm handshake. "You'll keep an eye on the little one for me, right?" he added in an undertone.

"Always," Sandor replied. Saying he was touched by this token of trust was an understatement.

"Hey, buddy!" Rickon sang out, hamming it up. While Brynden Tully walked away to take leave from the other Northerners, the kid planted himself in front of Sandor and flashed a smile. "I'm sure we'll meet again soon. Thanks for your help with all these damn boxes… and on behalf of my sister, thanks for the sink."

Too mortified to say anything, Sandor mumbled something and shook the kid's hand hard enough to crush it. After that, Rickon exchanged a few words with the three young men who waited by the entrance door; Harmond Umber tousled Rickon's long hair and Brynden Tully finally opened the door.

"I'd better go home, now," Sandor announced.

Sansa shook her head. "You stay and have dinner with us. I won't take no for an answer." She glared at him as he asked if that was what she really wanted. _Alright, then._

"Drive safe!" Sansa told her uncle and her brother. "Oh, and Rickon… behave!"

The brat turned around and pointed at her playfully. "You, behave!" The last of his smug smiles was for Sandor and suddenly the entrance door snapped shut.

Sansa brought her hands on her hips and swept the main room, looking at the three Northerners and the tall, disfigured man who stood away from them. Her brother's last remark had bothered her, on the evidence of her blushing cheeks, but she tried to save face. "Everyone likes Chinese food?" she asked.

* * *

Sandor had never imagined Rickon's departure could have that effect on him, but it was obvious: since the kid and his uncle were gone, he felt - again - he didn't belong there. What did he have in common with the three young men who looked at Sansa with puppy-dog eyes? Even though Harmond, the one who managed to get most of Sansa's attention, seemed a decent guy - Sandor acknowledged it with reluctance, but he knew it was true - he had nothing to tell him, and he certainly didn't have anything to say to the two other ones: Marlon, with his beer bottle glued to his hand and his bovine eyes, looked like a curmudgeon. Brandon, on the contrary, had straddled one of Sansa's precious chairs and he jabbered on, his red mustache constantly moving above his mouth; Sandor was happy the guy was out of his reach - otherwise he would have slapped him in the face.

As luck would have it, Sansa had beckoned him to sit in the couch, next to Harmond. Although the couch was a large one, there wasn't room for a third person once they were both settled down; she thus sat cross-legged on the floor, at Sandor's feet. Her unceremonious posture surprised him; there were chairs available, but she overlooked them. She thus was at the center of their small circle, laughing at Brandon's jokes, smiling to cheer up the taciturn Marlon and nudging Harmond from time to time.

At first, he asked himself why she had insisted until he agreed to stay for dinner, as she had her back to him; since Rickon and Brynden Tully's departure, they had not exchanged more than two words. After he had eaten half of his chow mein, he put the takeout box on his lap, his chopsticks stuck into what remain of his noodles and he considered leaving. He only needed an excuse of sorts to leave the girl with her three Northerner beaus. That was when Sansa shifted and brushed his leg again. The first time, Sandor had told himself it was an accident. _How many accidents does it take to become intentional?_ Before he could figure out the answer, she glanced around her shoulder and looked up at him smiling. Once more, the promises he saw in that smile got the better of his doubts. When she turned around again, his resolution had weakened.

"Don't you want to sit down on a chair?" Brandon asked Sansa. "Don't tell me you're comfortable, sitting like this."

_Shut the fuck up._ Sansa chuckled, caught with a forkful of noodles on its way to her mouth. "Actually, it's more comfortable than it seems." To demonstrate her point, she sat back, thus leaning against Sandor's leg. "You don't mind if I use your leg as a cushion?" she asked him, throwing her head back until the back of her head partly rested on his knee.

"You know I don't," was all he could offer.

There was an embarrassed silence afterwards: it had happened earlier in the evening when Harmond and Sansa exchanged one of these inside-jokes that delighted them. Sandor felt awkward, but it was like being back in the game. Besides, he might have finally understood why Sansa had chosen that place close to him rather than another one: she had her back to him and they didn't talk most of the time, but sitting cross-legged at his feet allowed her to remind him he wasn't alone by brushing his calf or by leaning against his leg. _I'm here with you,_ said the warmth emanating from her upper back.

He stopped wondering if he should leave and turned his thoughts in another direction. What would happen afterward? Was he supposed to leave when the Northerners would say goodbye? Did she want him to stay? Sandor knew exactly what he wanted, every fiber of his being shouted he needed to stay with her, yet he admitted it was either strange or creepy depending on the point of view: they had met again a few days ago and he couldn't just pretend the last seven years had left no trace. Besides, there were a couple of things to sort out, like the way he had abandoned her years before or the awkwardness underlying their exchanges back then. _Fuck, that's too much._ He wished Sansa told him to stay with her, but it was only a wish, as silly and unrealizable as those wishes he had when he was eight. _I wish my scars could fade. I wish Mom was with me again. _The notion Sansa could tell him to stay was just as unlikely. _Is it even a good thing if I stay tonight, so shortly after we met again?_

Brandon Norrey kept telling jokes while his food was cooling down. As for Sandor, he tried to get past his future disappointment by enjoying the contact of Sansa's upper back and shoulders. _I'm not ready,_ he told himself. _I wish I was, I wish things were simpler._ Everything was confused in his mind and beer didn't help untangling his problems.

All of a sudden, Sansa shifted and turned around, resting her elbow on his knee. She held out her takeout box to him. "Want to trade? What's in yours?"

"Chicken chow mein. What did you order?" he asked in response.

"Shrimps. I love shrimps." She smiled, grabbed the box resting on his lap and gave him hers.

Even though Brandon went on with his uninteresting japes, Sandor felt the others' gaze weighed heavily on him, as if they finally noticed his presence. He nevertheless tasted the shrimps she had left for him. Sansa's constant thoughtfulness towards him was a surprise for the Northerners. Whether they viewed him as a useless stranger, assumed his scars and his limp would disgust Sansa, or not they had refused to see him like a rival. Since her uncle and brother were gone though, Sansa took a perverse pleasure in showing them Sandor was as close to her than the three of them. Neither the young years spent near Sansa's hometown nor the fact their families were friends with the Starks changed anything. Unbidden, the lyrics of the song he had heard that morning in Sansa's car came back:

_I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,_

_Will you pour me one for the road?_

Would she find an excuse to keep him after the Northerners were gone? A part of him wished she did, while conscience told him it was too soon. Sandor could almost hear the Elder Brother's voice advising him: _no need to rush._ He snorted at that, but as Brandon had just told them the punchline of one of his countless jokes, the others thought he was enjoying Northern humor.

The conversation wound down and the Northerners began to talk about how they would take turns to drive back home. Brandon suggested with a wicked smile he could stay there while his companions headed North; Sansa didn't even reply. Finally, Harmond got on his feet with a sigh; he told Sansa it was pitch-dark and they should leave. They exchanged a few more words about people they knew in the North. In the meanwhile, Sandor went to the bathroom, took his tool box and walked back to the entrance door.

"Already leaving?" she asked Sandor. She seemed disappointed, but the next moment she was talking to the Northerners again and he didn't know what to think. _I'm a grown man, am I not supposed to see when she wants me to stay or not?_

They all exited the apartment and walked to the parking lot. Under the halo of a street lamp, Sandor shook hands with the Northerners; they hugged Sansa. At that very moment, Sandor should have waved goodbye and limped along to his truck, a little further on the parking lot, yet his feet refused to obey and his stayed there, a few yards from Sansa. Brandon found another story to tell, just to play for time, then Harmond motioned them inside the moving van. By his gesture, the tall Northerner seemed to acknowledge they could only retreat, that Sansa had made a choice of sorts and it was time for them to go back home. Harmond's eyes briefly met Sandor's as he slid into the moving van; there was no hostility in his eyes, just the feeling that he might have let the chance pass him by. It felt strange to read on someone else's expression what he had experienced these last few days.

Marlon started up the van, put it in reverse while Sansa waved at them and finally the moving van crossed the parking lot before disappearing in the night. Sansa exhaled a deep sigh.

"Are you alright?" he rasped, taking a step toward her.

"Yes. I'm exhausted but I'll be just fine." Perhaps it was a groundless impression, but her voice sounded shaky. "What about you? You must be dead tired."

"I should go, now." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gave her whatever twisted smile his half-burnt lips could form. He had made up his mind: staying was a bad idea even though he read in her blue eyes she wanted him to linger. She was confused too, if the way she bit her bottom lip was any indication. _Perhaps is she as confused as I am._

"There's something I wanted to tell you," she whispered as he took tentative steps to give her a last hug. Her faraway look worried him. "I just- got divorced. My lawyer says they will send me the official paper soon. Anyways, I never got a chance to celebrate so far." She glanced at him, embarrassed. "It would be weird to go out in this town I don't know, so… will you join me?" Again, she bit her lip. Under the street light, with her ponytail and her denim overall, she looked so vulnerable he resisted the urge to take her in his arms.

"Of course, I'll come. Whatever you want."

His heart pounding wildly in his chest, he closed the distance between them and hugged her briefly, his nose brushing her hair. _That scent, again._

"Sleep tight, Little Bird," he murmured. "And call me when you need something."

He walked backwards to his tool box, then he took it and walked to his truck. She was leaning, her back against the entrance door of her apartment, looking intently at him as he drove away, across the deserted parking lot.

* * *

**Thank you all for reading!**

**To Guest: ****So glad you like the way I describe Sandor's reactions… You know what it's like, it's sometimes difficult to know if you keep him in character or not. Thank you for your encouraging words!**

**To Anon:** **I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I had fun writing the scenes with Rickon… I'll do my best to update on a regular basis… Thank you!**

**To Tanakacchi:** **I can't agree more with you about these seven years they spent without seeing each other; there will be hints about what happened to them during this time… Besides, you're right to say it makes their relationship more complex and more complicated, because of all these things they never had a chance to talk about. However, the reason why I chose to write it that way is that I'm more comfortable with a romance between them when Sansa is a bit older - like most readers, I think.**

**Thank you so much for your support!**

**To Westeroswolf:** **The tattoo isn't a mystery anymore if you read this chapter; I hope you're not disappointed though! Thanks for reviewing.**


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